


Don't Worry, You Will

by cardiac_arrest



Series: Hit It Hard [1]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe, Enemies to Lovers, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Volleyball, kind of, look theyre volleyball players okay, mitch just kinda hates auston, woo this is stupid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 15:06:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19336999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardiac_arrest/pseuds/cardiac_arrest
Summary: “Mitchy, huh? Cute nickname,” Matthews smirks.“Shut the fuck up,” Mitch says. He tries hard not to kick Matthews. Or jump him.“Feisty,” Matthews laughs. “Thought you had something to say to me?”“Yeah, I do. You’re an asshole.”_____Or, 5 times Mitch hated Auston and 1 time he didn't.





	Don't Worry, You Will

**Author's Note:**

> okay look. they play volleyball. that's it. i might've based some stuff on actual players and teams or whatever, but only because i love them. so, here's some basic stuff about volleyball that may make reading this fic a little less confusing:
> 
> 1\. the SETTER is the person who runs the offense - volleys the ball on the second touch for a hitter to spike it  
> 2\. the WING SPIKERS are the people spiking the ball over the net on the third touch  
> 3\. the MIDDLE BLOCKERS are the people who specifically block the ball (they can hit and usually have quick attacks) and are usually very tall  
> 4\. the LIBERO is the defensive specialist who is only there to receive (and set if the setter is indisposed), they cannot hit the ball over the net
> 
> if there's more confusion, just leave a comment down below and i'll explain!

  1. VNL 2019



Mitch was first introduced to volleyball during gym class in sixth grade. It was a dumbed down version of the sport, engineered by his gym teacher to be better suited for a class of twenty twelve-year-olds. Nine people were on both sides of the court at all times, only bumping and volleying were taught, and servers were sometimes allowed to be halfway to the net. Yeah. _Nothing_ like the real sport.

 

Despite that, the sport stuck. And after a while, in junior high, everyone jumped on the volleyball train. Mitch was introduced to the concept of six people on a court with a few new skills such as hitting and blocking. At that time, Mitch was rather short with not much height or weight to his name. He was appointed to be a spiker by his first coach, just like everyone else.

 

But, eventually, Mitch got better. He grew taller, gained more muscles, and developed a passion for the game—one that bordered on obsession. His goals turned from making the school team to playing club volleyball in one of the better clubs in Toronto. That somehow revolved into university volleyball and then professional volleyball at the international level. Including a gig with the National Team of Canada.

 

Now, Mitch hadn’t expected that. But he wasn’t complaining.

 

And as the years flew by, his position had flipped back and forth between playing as a libero and a right-side hitter. Then finally, after a revelation made by his coach from club volleyball, a setter.

 

Being a setter had changed Mitch’s view of the game. He didn’t think he would’ve been able to make it to pro volleyball without that switch. Ever since he became a setter, volleyball was no longer about pure strength and brute force. The sport resembled chess more than anything now, as Mitch had to be the one setting up plays and thinking on his feet. Which was awesome. Because he likes that. He likes the challenge of fooling the other team and making clever plays.

 

But Mitch isn’t going to lie and say he doesn’t miss being a libero. Back then, all he had to do was make saves. And that had been the life. There had always been something particularly satisfying about making an impossible reception that caused the opposing team to go slack-jawed with disbelief. The painful throbbing on his arms afterwards always felt like validation. The blood-red flecks of bruising from broken capillaries in his skin always seemed like a beautiful, yet somewhat dark, reminder of his success.

 

And it’s times like these that Mitch really misses being a libero. When setting comes with the perils of getting hammered in the face by a stupid asshole. If he was a libero, this wouldn’t be happening to him at all during the game, he’d be nowhere near the net.

 

The game they’re playing right now is pretty important. They need to win to keep Canada going in the race for making the finals in the VNL. ( _Volleyball Nations League,_ Mitch thinks, _one of the stupidest types of format that the FIVB would force upon teams. Three straight days of matches, with four days of rest in between that’s spent in five thousand different time-zones. Fuck the FIVB.)_ It’s only the cherry on top that they’re playing Team USA _in_ America. It’s also one of the first times Mitch has been on a court in a year, after his unfortuitous back injury.

 

So they’ve won two sets—America’s won one—and, really, they should be taking the match fairly easily after that. But Auston fucking Matthews has ideas. Ones that Mitch _hates._

 

Auston Matthews is left-side spiker, one that’s good at what he does. His serves are massive— _A thunderbolt,_ Mitch thinks, _that’s what the commentators describe it as_ —and his spikes are exactly the same. The asshole towers over him, a good six inches taller than Mitch. Complete with a cocky grin and celly, there’s nothing more Mitch hates more than the type of volleyball player Auston Matthews is.  

 

And, right now, Matthews really isn’t making a good case for himself. Mitch can’t help but want to rip out Matthews’s insides. And his reasoning isn’t petty, not at all. It’s straightforward and reasonable.

 

It all starts during the third set. They’re up 16-14, ready to serve-receive. Mitch is ready, in position and ready to set. He looks at Jake Gardiner, the server for the US. His serves are deadly sometimes, as he opts for a top-spin serve instead of a float serve, which is somewhat uncommon for middle blockers. Gardiner dribbles the ball, starting his service routine. The stadium gets loud, American fans chanting ‘USA’ without abandon. There’s one guy in the crowd that seems to be drunkenly cheering excessively, which, honestly, pisses Mitch off.

 

Gardiner throws the ball, tossing it just right, and sends it like a bullet to Travis Dermott’s waiting arms. Travis is the libero, which means Mitch usually wouldn’t be worried about getting a good receive. But this time, it seems like it’s not the case. The ball flies up, soaring past Mitch’s head.

 

 _Fuck,_ Mitch thinks. He jumps, trying to at least get a hand on it to tip it over. That’s when, out of nowhere, the ball is sent back down right towards his face at an arm-ripping speed. Mitch barely has time to get out of the way.

 

“Shit!” he yells out without thinking. He lands unbalanced, stumbling a little before Mo gets a hand on him to stabilize him. Mitch whips his head to the opposite side of the net, looking at Team USA celebrating. Auston Matthews turns his head to look across the net, giving Mitch a cocky look with his patented smirk, including an annoying wink as well.

 

“Fuck, Marns, I’m sorry. Should’ve passed that better. He just hit a seam,” Travis apologizes as they move into a huddle.

 

“It’s okay,” Mitch says, still looking at Matthews. “What a fucking asshole.”

 

Mo raises an eyebrow, ushering him to the front of the net for another serve-receive. He’s put right in front of Matthews’s furiating face.

 

“Super spike,” Matthews mocks, smirking down at Mitch. Mitch grits his teeth and tries not to choke him with the net.

 

“Focus on the game, bud,” Mitch growls, trying to see Gardiner serve.

 

“Sure,” Matthews smirks and moves to block Mitch’s line of sight. Mitch scowls and Gardiner hits the ball.

 

They win the point.

 

And then Mitch blocks Matthews. He watches the ball go off his hands and hit Matthews right in his gigantic-ass fivehead. It stirs true joy in his chest as he yells at his teammates in celebration while Matthews looks on like a pissy five-year-old.

 

Take that, Auston Matthews. God, Mitch hates Auston Matthews so much.

  


  1. SWD powervolleys Düren



The next time that Mitch sees Auston Matthews’s annoying face, it’s during the regular season. Mitch plays for the SWD powervolleys Düren in Germany, far away from home where there isn’t a professional volleyball league. He’s been there for a few years now, enjoying the team dynamic of the almost never-changing roster. He likes the fact that there are a bunch of Canadians in the club, with Mo and Travis and JT all there. He likes the Swedes, Finns and Danes, albeit their rarity in volleyball. The Americans aren’t bad either.

 

And here’s the thing, as a setter, Mitch has to know everyone’s hitting habits and preferences as well as being amicable to everyone. It’s not a hard thing for Mitch to do; he does like everyone. He’s never petty or mean to his teammates, and he doesn’t think any of them _hate_ him either, or at least they don’t outright express it.

 

All in all, Mitch has a good rap with his teammates. They get along well—brilliantly in fact—and they’re practically brothers. But, he gets news that Auston Matthews has signed with the SWD powervolleys and his whole ‘not hating a teammate’ thing goes right down the drain for this season.

 

He immediately whips out his phone and messages Willy on Instagram. Will deserves to hear of the tragic news from Mitch first. He sends the post from the SWD powervolleys Instagram page welcoming Auston Matthews. He adds a message of his own. It reads, _WHAT THE FUCK._ All caps and everything.

 

Willy replies in a few seconds. _lol,_ he says.

 

Mitch frowns heavily and presses the call button.

 

“What do you want, Mitch?” Willy answers, voice muffled.

 

“Auston Matthews, Willy. Read the fucking post.” Mitch’s own voice barely contains his anger.

 

“It’s just Auston Matthews. Who’s actually a pretty chill dude. Calm down,” Willy says nonchalantly.

 

Mitch’s veins pop out. “You’ve been brainwashed by his fivehead. He almost took my head off earlier this summer! You want a murderer on your team? Pretty chill my ass.”

 

Willy snorts. “I’m like five thousand percent sure he didn’t mean to take your head off. You’re still pretty alive, anyways.”

 

“How would you know that he didn’t mean it? It’s not like you’re friends with Auston Matthews,” Mitch scoffs.

 

“Yeah, but Kap is.”

 

And, okay, Willy does have him there. If Kap is friends with Auston Matthews, then Willy is bound to know all of Matthews’s secrets.

 

“Okay, so Kap _knows_ how much of a dick he is.”

 

“Wrong again, Mitchy. He’s not that bad.”

 

“What a load of bullshit.”

 

“I’m going to hang up now,” Willy says. He does so.

 

Mitch stares down at his phone, screen returning back to the messages he has with Willy. He looks down at Instagram for a few minutes, blanking out, before he gets a notification.

 

_auston_matthews started following you. 43s._

 

He calls Willy back. Willy hangs up on the first ring.

 

 _follow him back, dumbass,_ Willy messages him. Mitch sends him some middle fingers and blocks him.

  
  
  
  


Knowing that Matthews is going to be on his team is very different than actually having him on his team. Mitch realises that the second he steps onto the court for their first ever practice of the season. There’s just something off that he can’t put his finger on, something that makes him wrinkle his nose in annoyance. And then Mitch sees him. Automatically, like a Pavlovian response, Mitch wants to get his hands around Matthews’s neck.

 

“I hate this already,” Mitch says under his breath, shoving himself right into Mo’s side.

 

“Mitch,” Mo starts, “he didn’t even do anything yet.”

 

“It’s his presence.”

 

“Well, you gotta get used to his presence fast,” Mo states, giving him a pat on the butt.

 

Mitch takes a look in Matthews’s direction and frowns automatically. He’s talking to Kappy, doing some hip stretches at the same time. The movement places emphasis on his tree-trunk thighs and bulges his biceps out. Oh, Mitch is mad.

 

“I’m mad,” Mitch says.

 

Mo looks at him. “Do you, like, just hate all American players? You don’t hate Jake, do you?”

 

Mitch hums and looks at Jake. He’s jumping at the net, blocking. “Nah. Jake’s cool.”

 

“Dude, then why do you hate him so much? I get that he practically spiked a ball into your face, which was pretty funny by the way, but he apologised right?”

 

Mitch looks at Mo pointedly. “No he didn’t.”

 

Mo stares at Mitch.

 

“Okay he did! But only after he looked down on me. While being a gigantic asshole at the same time.”

 

Mo snorts. “Go talk it out, Mitchy. Come on, let’s go talk it out before Coach gets here.” Mitch is about to start protesting loudly when Mo drags him right to Matthews.

 

“Mitchy wants to talk to you. I want to go talk to Jake. Have fun, kids,” Mo smiles and claps Mitch on his back. Mitch scowls as Mo saunters away to the net to shove at Jake.

 

“Mitchy, huh? Cute nickname,” Matthews smirks.

 

“Shut the fuck up,” Mitch says. He tries hard not to kick Matthews. Or jump him.

 

“Feisty,” Matthews laughs. “Thought you had something to say to me?”

 

“Yeah, I do. You’re an asshole.”

 

Kap laughs from his spot beside Matthews, “I agree.”

 

“Thanks, Mitchy. You’re not so bad yourself, either,” Matthews smirks again.

 

Mitch growls and walks away. Goddamn his stupid face for being so attractive.

 

By the end of their first practice, Mitch has fumbled around ten sets and slipped about three times. And Matthews? He’s become best friends with Frederik Andersen, the Danish opposite hitter that Mitch has tried to befriend for _months._ It takes Matthews less than two hours to do so. Mitch hasn’t been so lucky.

 

Mitch stares at the two, Auston still smiling arrogantly as he tells some stupid anecdote that has Freddie smiling softly.

 

“I hate Auston Matthews so much,” Mitch fumes. Willy answers with a giggle and a slap to Mitch’s butt.

  


  1. Practice, SWD powervolleys Düren



After a few games and practices, Mitch settles into the new season without too much distress. He reacquaints himself with the distinctive nuances between the setting preferences of his team, gets used to playing with aches in his muscles, and hangs out a lot more with non-Team Canada players.

 

Their games go decently, they’re winning more than they were last season, and Mitch is getting a lot more court time. Though, honestly, that may also be because of his healed injury.

 

Mitch also has to admit that Auston isn’t as bad as he seems. The guy loves dogs. That fact alone places him ten times higher than Nazem Kadri, who he’s played with on Team Canada and prefers _cats._ Okay, that isn’t the only reason why Auston is ten times better than Naz, but it’s one of them. (The other reasons may have something to do with his ripped body.)

 

Auston also does play good volleyball. His serves hit the mark pretty much all the time. His hits hurt. And his blocks seem to span across the whole net. Mitch hates to say it, but he is a good addition to the team. Although lately, he hasn’t been so hot. Mitch isn’t sure why, but he’ll let Fred and Kappy handle that type of conversation.

 

But, right now, Auston is driving a wrench into Mitch’s brain with his stupid antics.

 

“Stop wiping your fucking shoes,” Mitch yells. He’s taking a rest as Willy’s doing the setting drills. It’s the fifth time that Auston has wiped the soles of his court shoes within ten minutes. The action’s been battering Mitch mad with annoyance.

 

“The court’s fucking dirty,” Auston scowls back. He pushes a hand through his sweaty hair. Mitch watches sweat drip down his forehead. He gets an urge to lick it off. “You don’t want the top-scorer to slip and break his back, do you?”

 

“Newsflash, asshole, you’re not the top-scorer anymore. JT is.”

 

JT hears his name and gives Mitch a questioning look. Mitch smiles back and waves him off.

 

Auston glowers, wiping his shoe one more time, “it’s not my fault I’m not getting that much court time anymore.”

 

Mitch snorts. “And why’s that, huh? Play better and maybe you’ll see the court more.”

 

Auston growls and stomps over, tugging Mitch into a head-lock and scruffing up his hair. Mitch squawks, trying to rip Auston’s limbs away from his. On one hand it’s embarrassing as hell, on the other hand it’s turning Mitch on.

 

“Stop fucking around! It’s your time to set, Marner. Matthews, stop antagonizing him!” Coach yells.

 

Auston lets him go with a flourish. Mitch glares at him. Mitch’s face softens after a minute.

 

“Auston, if you want to practice more, I can help. Okay? Get that old fire back,” Mitch offers, sincere.

 

Auston’s face pinches before relaxing. His cocky grin is back. “Mitch the Magician is offering some one-to-one help, huh?”

 

Mitch scowls. “Fine, then. I was being serious, but say goodbye to your starting line-up time.”

 

Mitch huffs indignantly and starts to stalk towards the net. A big hand stops him, clutching his wrist tight. Mitch feels heat settle in his cheeks.

 

“Hey,” Auston says softly. “I was kidding. That’d be great, Mitch.”

 

Mitch stares into Auston’s eyes. There’s a silence between them.

 

“Okay,” Mitch says awkwardly and scurries off to the net.

 

Later on during practice, Auston manages to hit the ball into Mitch’s head two times while serving. Mitch takes revenge by setting him awfully. He might get yelled at by coach, but it’s worth it. Because he hates Auston Matthews and his stupid fucking antics.

  


  1. Tokyo Olympics 2020



The next time Auston pisses Mitch off royally is at the Tokyo Olympics. Mitch wasn’t part of the Olympic Squad during 2016, when Canada qualified for the Olympics for the first time in _decades._ He was watching though, and it was awesome when they beat America. It was always awesome when Canada beats America.

 

They’ve made it this year to the Olympics for the second time in a row. The goal in 2016 was to just make it to the Olympics. But this time? They want to be on the podium.

 

JT has been ranting about it. There are stars in his eyes every single time the subject comes up. And now that they’re in Tokyo, it doesn’t seem to get much better.

 

It’s just their luck that they play Team USA first, a few weeks after they’ve arrived in Tokyo. The match is tomorrow, so there isn’t going to be much activity for the rest of the day. Mitch looks forward to a day of light exercise and relaxation that will get him game-ready. And it all starts with a good, satisfying breakfast.

 

That’s why it’s so infuriating when Auston jumps in front of him at the cafeteria out of nowhere, already picking up the last piece of French toast. Mitch was looking forward to that French toast; it was the only semi-healthy piece of food that tasted good at the cafeteria. And now, Auston has it.

 

It seems that Auston remembers Mitch’s obsession with French toast, because as he realises Mitch is behind him, he turns around and smirks at him. He waves his plate up and down, shoving the fact that he was the one who got French toast in Mitch’s face.

 

Mitch swears to himself, _“motherfucker.”_

 

“God you’re such an asshole, still,” Mitch sighs exasperatedly.

 

Auston smiles. “Yeah? What’d I do now?”

 

Now, Mitch hasn’t seen Auston in a few months since the season ended, but for some reason, he looks even better than Mitch remembers. His biceps bulge out even more, put on a tan, and that fivehead has never been more attractive. Mitch won’t even mention the status of his hair.

 

“You took my French toast,” Mitch whines.

 

“Your French toast? I didn’t know this had your name on it.” Auston’s smile turns amused.

 

“Auston. You know what I mean.”

 

“Aw, Mitchy. Stop pouting. Will you feel better if I give you half?”

 

Mitch is definitively _not_ pouting.

 

“No. I want all of it.”

 

Auston snorts, “now you’re asking for too much.”

 

“You know what?” Mitch huffs. “You’ll be regretting not giving all of that French toast to me tomorrow when we kick your fucking asses.”

 

Auston laughs. “Giving up that easy, huh, Mitchy? I’ll look forward to it then, pretty boy. Have fun eating French-toast-free breakfast.” He squeezes Mitch’s ass on the way to the American table.

 

Mitch growls and stares at the muscles rippling in Auston’s back as he walks away. The Team USA shirts are tight, which is both a curse and a blessing. Mitch returns to the Canadian table with an empty plate and his face flushed red.

 

“What’s up with you?” Mo asks.

 

“I hate Auston Matthews,” he says. And that’s the end of that.  

  


  1. Canada VS. America, Tokyo Olympics 2020



The next day, Mitch is starting against America. It feels good to be starting on the court, because he loves Team Canada and playing for his country. He loves playing with the group of guys that he’s practically family with. There’s the group of veterans that act like Mitch’s dad, the fireball hitters who are actually funny as hell, and the enthusiastic liberos who give Mitch a run for his money. The team fits well together, with so many inside jokes that link them together in a wonderful way. Everyone’s so supportive, a real hive-mind sort of thing.

 

Mitch knows everyone like the back of his hand. Knows their quirks. It’s nice. He didn’t need to hide anything in front of these guys.

 

So when the match starts, Mitch isn’t expecting to be knocked off his feet by psychological tactics. Auston’s on the opposite side of the net, just like their first meeting during the VNL in 2019. But this time, instead of infuriating Mitch with his volleyball, he’s infuriating Mitch with his entire existence.

 

Mitch finds himself distracted constantly, even with the fans roaring around the stadium cheering both teams on. There’s been too many times that Mitch has been caught by Mo staring at Auston’s hands at the net. They’re just so big, with so many fucking veins. His thoughts go from mildly inappropriate to full-on _inappropriate._ He’s thinking about Auston fucking those fingers into him, into his prostate.

 

He has to stop. It doesn’t help that Auston is purposely trying to throw Mitch off his game. Mitch has always admired the strength that Auston has, especially after a brutal spike. But this time, after each super spike, Auston has turned to giving Mitch crude looks across the net. It starts out fairly tame, with hooded eyes and eyebrows raised in a suggestive manner. It evolves, eventually, to obscene lip-licking and provocative finger gestures. Mitch wants to choke him.

 

During a timeout, he harshly reminds Auston to cut it out.

 

“Stop it,” Mitch whispers firmly, brushing past Auston. He does _not_ want to get hard at all in front of international television.

 

Auston raises an eyebrow and looks down at Mitch’s crotch pointedly. Mitch resists the urge to cover up the front of his shorts like some snot-nosed teenager.

 

It gets better after that, Auston doesn’t target Mitch directly anymore, but Auston playing volleyball will always get Mitch hot.

 

They take down Team USA in 4 sets. There’s plenty of yelling and cheering after that. The blood in Mitch’s veins rushes hotly throughout his whole body. Mitch thinks he’s going to light on fire. He takes a look at Auston across the net and sticks out his tongue. He squeezes Auston’s hand a little harder than necessary during the handshake and kicks his shin a little.

 

The scowl he gets in return is just as sweet as the victory.

 

Later that night, Mitch gets a visit from Auston. He’s sore as hell after playing those 4 sets, and he bets Auston is too.

 

“What the hell are you doing here?” Mitch starts when he opens the door to his and Mo’s room to find Auston standing in front of it. “Where’s Mo?”

 

Auston barges in. “Switched rooms. He’s in my room that I share with Jake.”

 

Mitch is unimpressed. He notices the change of clothes in Auston’s hands.

 

“You planning on staying the night?”

 

Auston looks at Mitch. “Ya think?”

 

“Wait,” Mitch says, frowning. “Is that even allowed?”

 

Auston snorts. “No, but who cares? People hook up all the time here.”

 

Mitch frowns.

 

“Well, not just hook up,” Auston says. He trails off and bites his lip uncertainly. Auston’s wearing his glasses and his hair is soft and wavy. Everything about him turns Mitch on.

 

“So, this is more than hooking up?” Mitch asks.

 

Auston looks at Mitch, into his eyes. He smiles, a hint of arrogance within that Mitch now finds hot. But the rest is all gentleness. “Yeah.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Okay?” Auston questions.

 

Mitch hops onto his bed. “Okay.” He spreads his legs. “What are you waiting for?”

 

Auston snorts and rips his shirt off. He pins Mitch to the bed.

 

Later, when Auston has a hand on his cock, Mitch pants, “I fucking hate you so much.”

 

“What did I do now?” Auston sighs exasperatedly.

 

“You can’t fuck me here, we still have to play volleyball,” Mitch complains, whining. Auston’s hand tightens on Mitch’s dick and Mitch moans languidly.

 

“I’ll make up for it after,” Auston grins wickedly and gets a mouth on his cock.

 

Mitch gasps and clutches a hand in Auston’s hair.

 

He really does hate Auston Matthews.

  


+1. Post Canada VS. Italy, Tokyo Olympics 2020

Mitch walks off the court defeatedly, an arm around his waist courtesy of Mo. Mitch has his own arm around Travis’s shoulder. The mood is somber as Team Canada clambers to the changing room and showers. Coach doesn’t say anything on the way, but there isn’t disappointment in his face. He still seems proud.

 

Losing to Italy was awful, a 5-setter loss that really should’ve been their win. It hurts so much more knowing that they were only one place away from finishing in third, obtaining that bronze podium finish.

 

“Hey,” Mo says to the both of them. “We did good.”

 

Mitch grunts. He feels hollow. He wants to respond to Mo and agree with him and talk about their growth as a team. He wants to reassure Travis that he did great, that every dig was special and helped them even more. He doesn’t want Travis to dwell on the hits he didn’t save. He wants to remember the good sets he’s made, not the ones that caused an untimely spike into the net or out of the court.

 

“We did,” Travis echoes back. There’s a hint of belief in his tone, but, mostly, it’s just despair.

 

Mo sighs. “Come on, back to the changing room. Next time, eh?”

 

Mitch nods jerkily. He doesn’t want to wait another four years to get a crack at this.

 

“Hey guys,” a voice calls behind them. Mitch turns to look. It’s Auston. All three of them stop. “Good game against Italy.”

 

Mitch sighs, “not good enough.”

 

Auston frowns. “No. It was awesome.”

 

Mitch stares at Auston. He turns to Mo and Travis, “let me speak to this idiot for a few minutes?”

 

Travis and Mo snort.

 

“Go easy on the big guy,” Travis says and sets off towards the change room.

 

“Have fun,” Mo waggles his eyebrows. It falls kind of flat because of the sadness still in his eyes.

 

That leaves Mitch and Auston alone in the hallway to the change rooms. They’re not truly alone; there’s tons of volunteer and staff of the Olympics bustling around. It’s good enough for Mitch, though.

 

“You okay?” Auston says softly. He tugs Mitch into a closet full of cleaning supplies. It’s dark and Mitch manages to kick over a bucket. Thankfully, it was empty. Auston turns on the light.

 

“I’m fine,” Mitch smiles shakily. “Are we allowed to be in here?”

 

Auston scoffs. “Since when were you such a stickler for the rules? Come on Mitch, how’re you actually doing?”

 

Mitch sighs and lets the smile drop, walking to the farthest corner in the room from Auston. There’s a bunch of bottles of bleach in that corner. Mitch picks one up and looks at it like it’s the most interesting thing in the room. It’s not.

 

“Auston. We just lost the bronze-medal match. At the fucking _Olympics._ How do you think I feel?” Mitch plops down on the floor with his bleach in-hand.

 

“Aw, Mitchy,” Auston says. He drops down next to Mitch, in front of the bleach bottles. He takes the bottle Mitch has in his hands and throws it across the tiny room. He didn’t throw it hard, but the resounding crash startles Mitch.

 

“Jesus Christ! Get us caught, why don’t you?”

 

Auston smiles down at Mitch, pulling Mitch into his lap. Mitch thinks it must be uncomfortable for Auston to have him in his lap. He’s practically six feet three.

 

“It’s okay, Mitchy, it’ll be okay.”

 

Auston strokes his head. Mitch sniffles, cuddling into Auston’s chest.

 

Auston smiles down, looking soft and supportive and perfectly kissable. Mitch takes the opportunity to plant one on him—quick, gentle, and light. Auston maneuvers him around, so Mitch is straddling him. He tips Mitch’s chin up and presses his own kiss on Mitch’s lips. Mitch smiles into it, bittersweet.

 

Team USA has their gold medal match the next day, and Auston Matthews is spending his day off in a dingy closet comforting Mitch.

 

Mitch guesses he doesn’t hate Auston Matthews. Not that much.

  


**Author's Note:**

> yeah so i like volleyball more than hockey. this fic was basically me wanting to write vball fanfiction. but it's not popular enough and i don't know the players well. so you get hockey players as volleyball players :)))
> 
> anyways, thank you guys for reading! please leave a kudos if you liked it. and if you really liked it, leave a comment down below. tell all your friends and come scream with me on my tumblr @mitcheemarns. 
> 
> please tell me there are some people who like vball. please.


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